


Pulsating

by Atsvie



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atsvie/pseuds/Atsvie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Money was the solution to every whim of Oz's. A stripper that fascinates him in a world of technicolor and alcohol was supposed to react to that in the same way. But sex doesn't turn out to be a predictable variable with more than just attraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally posting this monster on here from ff.net

Pulsating in his ears, thudding in his chest, and the rush in his veins, it was all so exhilarating. The air was too humid and hot, and the elbows and limbs kept pushing against him uncomfortably. Frankly, the sweat and curves made up for the slight suffocation. Oz felt himself melting into the thriving crowd, and it was intoxicating.

The air smelled of strong body odor and thick heat. Alcohol was ever present in the breaths and voices of the bodies around him as he slid past faceless dancers. There was something undefinable about the scent from the dance floor. Between the musky feel of perspiration mixing with alcohol and the sweet sense of pulsating audio waves in itself, it was something entirely unique.

He found himself giving into the dancing and meshing of bodies. Identities and faces were all inconsequential, as flesh melded against fabric. Electronic beats and flashing lights filled his senses, and viridian eyes were bright with sparks of adrenaline. Drowning and falling deeper into the sensations around him. Oz. His own identity seemed to fade into the background of hammering hearts and friction.

Of course, no one cared who he was there. None of the dancing participants in their mob of panting bodies paid any mind to the sixteen year old boy drinking in their lifestyle. With the right amount of money, Oz could buy his way in, and that was fine with him. For the first time, the stress and reality was welcomed to melt away.

Emerald eyes looked up into the glowing colors around him, past the sea of people. The collection of rooms and separated areas all conjoined in the center around circular stages and a crowded bar. The few sober employees bustled about, their movements matching the tempo of the beats and grinding bodies. But it was the stages that caught a spark in curious viridian irises.

The movements against something as static as a dirty pole were no less enrapturing than the air of sex around Oz. He watched as fabric pooled around the man's legs, and arms embraced the cool metal like a lover. A pink tongue darted out to lick his lip, and Oz wasn't sure if he was doing it to be seductive or to wipe sweat away. He was left only in tight, black jeans with a glittering white belt dangling undone from his waist. Oz felt an excited shiver as he watched gloved fingers expertly work at the button and zipper.

Raven waves jerked away from the matted locks against flesh and sweat. His head fell back with a roll of his hips, and Oz's mouth was getting incredibly dry just at the sight. He caught a glimpse of golden eyes behind those dark lashes, and there was no doubt in what Oz wanted. Every bend and curve drew Oz in further, and a more primal desire flared darkly.

Oz drank in the sight of the man's chiseled chest hungrily. Muscles rippled from his abdomen, across pale skin and up to a faded pink gash of some painful memory that had left a physical imprint. His frame was lean, but the crevices and dips of toning was undeniable. For a brief moment, Oz wondered how the flesh would feel under his fingers.

It was when his thumbs deflty hooked under the waist of dark jeans that the blonde started shoving past other onlookers to get closer in any way. The atmosphere dripped into a tightness, constricting around him as bodies held him back and his clothes clung too close. His tongue licked the roof of his mouth in a sticky motion, swallowing dryly. Oz had made it within feet, and as golden eyes locked on his, he felt his chest swell. There was no change in expression, no words exchanged, and it was only momentary, but it was enough to drive a teenaged heart into a fit of uneven fluctuation.

And then it ended.

The man shot his crowd a smirk before tugging his pants up and, what Oz thought was intentionally, left the gaudy pearl belt undone and quavering as he walked away. Oz's eyes followed the slight sway of his hips off the stage, focusing on the moving lips as he exchanged a few words with someone the younger would never know.

Oz had been raised in such a way that he expected to be given anything that he desired, no matter price nor value. It was natural to him, as he slid past wallflowers and stumbling drunks towards the side of the stage, that he would have this man he was so enraptured by. His focus was wavering between the sea of bodies and lights, those golden eyes almost slipping away from view. Pink lips pursed slightly before curling into a persuasive smile as he spotted and began to approach the disheveled dancer offstage.

He didn't notice Oz at first, perhaps accustomed to the stares. Oz's smile strained a bit, and he stepped closer in a blatant motion, stepping into the dancer's line of view. Black brows furrowed slightly, attention now focused on the smaller blonde.

"Do you need something?"

The irritation to his voice was gruff. One hand rested on his hip in a demanding manner, his entire posture from narrowed eyes to clenched fists suggesting that he was not excited to see a gawking teenager.

Oz smiled brightly at him, the expression glaringly out of place from the pulsating atmosphere, "Yea, my name is Oz," he greeted, tilting his head as his voice strained to push above the music, "You were really good. Come home with me."

The man blanched, and Oz smirked slightly from the reaction. Oz was also raised to be straightforward. He didn't like to play pointless games when he was impatient, in which case, he was rather excited to take the dancer home with him.

"No."

"I'll pay you."

After a heavy moment of searching in his pocket, Oz's hand emerged with crumpled dollars of values most sixteen-year old boys should not carry. He shoved it at the man with a grin, not bothering to check the amount that he was offering.

Hesitantly, gloved fingers took the wrinkled papers from his hand and gently smoothed them out as he counted. His mouth tightened into a frown as he stared at the money. Oz wanted to know what was going through his mind as golden eyes focused so intently at the paper, what was being debated. If not for a response, Oz nearly would have asked.

"I'm a stripper, not a prostitute," he shoved the money back at Oz, who in turned blinked and shook his head. Veridian eyes darkened a shade and he laughed, not taking the abused bills back. Irritated, the dancer glared and barked, "And kids shouldn't be here anyways. Go before I call security."

"A hundred an hour, in addition to this payment."

Oz smiled at him sweetly, small hands smoothing out the creases in his dress shirt diplomatically. Not only was he sincere, but he was determined, and by the look on the older man's expression, he was also winning. When in doubt, throw more money at it. Shock painted his pale face rather cutely, Oz thought, and giggled when he shook his head.

The younger reiterated his offer by handing the money back to him, adding offhandedly, "I can give you more if that's what you-"

"Fine," the man grunted, amber eyes flickering from the money and back to Oz.

Cheerfully, the younger clapped and clasped his hands behind his back, "I'm so glad! We should leave now, oh don't worry about the rest of your shift, I can pay you the difference." He waved the idea off idly with a chuckle, money as undrainable resource and a concept to appease himself. It was all he had.

Previously having been so caught up in the excitement that he had said yes in between flashing lights and a thudding bass, Oz realized that he had forgotten to ask something to entirely vital.

"What's your name?"

As if in a daze from the entire situation, the man hesitated before mumbling, "Raven." His tone was something of distaste, as if bitter about the simple title. He sighed, running a gloved hand through dark waves, "That's my stage name though. Just call me Gilbert. Gilbert Nightray."

Albeit happy, Oz was honestly surprised that he had been entrusted with such an important detail. Gilbert. It rolled around in his mind like a foreign spell, and Oz whispered it to himself to experiment how it felt on his tongue. He looked up at him, Gilbert he reminded himself, and nodded. Gilbert sent him a disgruntled scowl, arms wrapping around himself as he waited for Oz to react.

"Nice to meet you then, Gil!"

Oz smiled.

Gilbert, or the aforementioned 'Gil', pinched the bridge of his nose with a long sigh. His eyes squeezed tight, voice strained, "Stupid kid." He had meant for it to be whispered to himself, but interested, Oz perked up and a slight pout fell onto his features.

"Hey, I am not a kid," he protested, pointing at Gilbert accusingly. Or rather, Oz had more money to his name than age could count, it really all became so obsolete after a few bills.

Gilbert stared at him, the technicolor beats filling the silence as someone yelped in the crowd of meshing bodies behind them. He parted his lips slowly, clearly attempting to speak slowly, "Are you even old enough to be here?"

"Nope!"

Oz grinned wider.

There was a longer moment in which Gil's expression was blank, before he shook his head and motioned for Oz to follow him as he turned around. Oz giggled to himself, pleased with his apparent victory. His eyes followed the movements of his torso as he trailed behind him into a door leading into a electric lit corridor. Curiously, he asked where they were going and was told he needed to get his things.

"There's a car waiting for me in the back parking lot," the younger noted as he waited outside the door for Gilbert to come out with his things.

The dark haired man appeared in the doorway with a modest grey sweater and heavy black coat. Oz mentally noted the holes and dirt on the coat with interest, but was careful not to be caught staring as Gilbert walked past him with a grunt. He watched him take out a cigarette as they opened the door to the outside. His hand was shaking.

The sounds from the club had become faded and dull, only the undertones of the bass pounding through concrete and into the cold, winter night. Oz quickened his pace to catch up to his new companion, biting his lip as for once, he was unsure of what to say. The parking lot was dark, and littered with trash, but the lights from the city illuminated the sky softly. Not even the stars compared to the electric colors and hues.


	2. Chapter 2

When Oz had been a small child of bright forest eyes and a tender age of six, he wondered why he didn't live in a castle. Curiously, he posed the question to a mother-figure in the form of a middle aged maid. Obviously taken aback, with the aging wrinkles above her eyes deepening and her mouth pursing into a tight line, she suggested in a slow voice that the child indeed already lived in a castle. Oz had stomped his foot and insisted that his family's house really wasn't big enough to be considered a castle-there were no towers or bridges, Nana-and he really didn't like his home too much.

A decade later, and Oz still was rather bitter about not finding a home in a glimmering castle. Instead, his childhood home had began to diminish in its original amount of grandeur. Despite the look of utmost awe on his new found companion's face and how golden eyes drank in every detail and precious metal, Oz walked past it all with no interest.

The foyer was grandiose in its own right, painted in deep shades of blues and accents of dark gold. Curtains draped over tall windows, fabric twisting and covering the glass panes desperately in portions of rich indigo. It was occupied by a crystal chandelier hovering above yet not entirely filling the cavity the tall ceiling left. Shards of carefully cut glass merely hung dully, no amount of light to bring it to life.

There was a distinct difference in the set of footsteps ascending the marble cut staircase. The soft padding of dress shoes led the way up winding stairs in a habitual mantra, followed by hollow thuds of boots that lagged behind a moment. Neither voices or question broke the heavy air, the only sense of communication through those resounding footsteps. Oz himself wasn't sure what was appropriate to say in such a situation, and left it in a ambiguous silence from the car ride to entering his house.

Excitement was pooling in his stomach like collecting rain in a dirty jar. Oz's lack of moral standing provided enough reasoning for him to proceed with his first whim, but there was something undeniably off by the time he found himself turning the doorknob to his room. There wasn't supposed to be acidic fear or a sinking uncertainty. Oz always went through with his impulses, no matter the consequence, but nothing before had been like this. Buying Gilbert's company wasn't like bribing for an essay extension. And it was partially terrifying.

Perhaps, it had gone too quickly for once in his moment of blurry decisions. The blonde had gone from a world of oscillating bodies and drowning techno to the coldness of his house in what seemed like moments. Watching the exotic show, meeting Gilbert, and the ride home all blended together in a hypnotic montage. The only proof it had happened was the lack of weight in one pocket and the click of the door as the aforementioned man closed it behind him.

Oz stared at him silently for a long moment, eyes flickering over every fold in his clothing to the aversion in his eyes. He watched as squinted orbs of amber traveled from detail to detail in the room, only occasionally stopping to meet viridian. His arms were crossed over himself as if he were cold, but so much more frightened than emotionally frozen. Protectively, his hands clutched at his sides, and Oz noticed how long fingers were turning white.

"What?" Gilbert demanded, eyes now landing on his feet.

Oz shrugged, expression nearly bored. He hummed to himself as he dropped onto the bed, fingers casually undoing the buttons of a starch white dress shirt. "I don't know," he answered truthfully. The statement was simple, and there was no indication in his features that said otherwise.

He felt the golden eyes' stare focus on the parting buttons, and Oz's lips quirked into a small smirk. Surprisingly, he spotted a light hue of scarlet begin to color Gilbert's face before he looked away.

"Don't you know what you're doing? You're the one who wanted me here," he accused, and the dark fabric under his fingers gathered into creases as it was gripped tighter.

Oz laughed airily, relaxing onto his bed in a feline like manner. One finger idly played with the wrinkles of his navy, cotton comforter, while the other hand was stretched out and a single digit bent in a beckoning motion.

"I guess we'll find out then."

The uncertainty was hiding behind a clever smirk, the thudding in his chest drowned out by the creak of the bed frame as a hesitant weight pressed down on it. Oz stared at the dark haired man curiously, like a child viewing something marvelous for the first time. He was the little boy looking ahead at a large, elegant castle, trying to figure out how to make it his own.

He saw, and acknowledged, the nervous tint to golden eyes. Oz knew nothing about this man, only his name and his profession. The flitting emotions and expressions across his face gave little to no clues on the inner workings into a raven mind. It was dark, with no indication as to where to start nor how to approach whatever Oz's goal had been. Incidentally, his original whim had been caught up and flustered away by this new pull towards the now fidgeting Gilbert.

To say in the least, the atmosphere was awkward.

"Can I kiss you?"

Oz blurted out the first idea that came to mind, leaning on his arm towards the other. There were no games behind his words, no manipulative intention. Oz was too strung up in the idea of what intimacy itself was to try and use it to his advantage.

As a result, Gilbert leaned the other way, flinching away from the teenaged boy. A certain sense of panic crossed over his features, and Oz noticed a mental battle storming and mauling his thoughts. He cleared his throat, looking away, "Do...Do you have to?"

Oz laughed, clearly amused by the response, "I don't know. Do I have to? I haven't done this before."

Gilbert's eyes snapped to the other's grinning face with obvious astonishment. Before he could begin to formulate a response, the bemused teenager innocently suggested that he could strip for him instead, if he would rather. Gilbert wasn't sure if he was more shocked by the casual tone in the former or the latter statement.

"Just do it then," the low voice, now dry and monotonous, stated.

Oz curiously moved to kiss him, a slightly kneeling position and threatening to fall into Gilbert's lap. One hand gripped the dark fabric on the shoulder of his sweater for support. Did he close his eyes for this? Gilbert's were still open, watching him as he hesitated in contemplation of an angle. Oz was curious to know if it was irritation or nervousness that made Gilbert's brow crease into a wrinkle.

With a sheepish grin, Oz finally leaned in, too quickly-and he really hadn't done this before-and felt his lips press too hard to the older man's. Gilbert's lips were warm, and soft, and evidently a certain type of addiction. Contently, Oz's arms wound around his neck as his fingers tangled into black hair. He felt the slight dampness of sweat in raven locks, mind racing back to the jerk of his head on that pole. Upon pulling closer in what was almost like desperation, the blonde moved into a fumbling straddle with the muffled protest from underneath him.

Despite being nothing but a simple contact of lips, Oz's curiosity built up more with a strange, tense heat. He had just paid for his first kiss with a stranger, and he couldn't find anything odd about that in his half dazed state. Never had he really expected for any firsts to be of a unique, memorable nature, and he was more than willing to throw each one away in exchange for the rush of the moment.

And his virginity wasn't any exception.

He leaned his forehead against Gilbert's, smiling at the frustrated red hue that had spread across the older's face. Whispering, his hand slid from his neck to his lap in what he assumed was a seductive manner. The jump that he received in return could really be taken either way, but Oz assumed it was good then. Dryly, he licked his lips, "Let's have sex."

It wasn't a suggestion or a question, nor was there any room for argument. His tone was dark with demand like a hungry predator, eyes looking downwards into golden irises. A flicker of panic lit up into electric topaz. Oz didn't wait for an answer, for a potential 'no.'

He captured parted lips, harder this time. The form under him was unmoving, and Oz craved for the writhing and movement that he had been drawn to. He knew it was there, lying dormant in Gilbert's uncomfortable state. He would just have to coax it out, and figure out the way to make the dancer lose himself like he did on stage. It was his tongue that took up the endeavor, licking at his bottom lip expectantly, albeit sloppy.

Maybe he was doing it wrong, and frowned against tight lips as he tried to gather a response for him. He felt Gilbert shift under him, a nervous gesture that made Oz realize that Gilbert really didn't want this. Somewhat, it hurt his pride, but moreover, it was a challenge. Considering that Oz hadn't left any room for the older man to give his opinion, it dawned on him that he really would have said no.

Oz didn't know much about sex. He had never been exposed to it aside from the dirty magazines and videos that he would occasionally get his hands on. The images and sounds compiled into a basic amount of knowledge, building up into the skills, or lack thereof, that he had. And so even though Oz was going entirely by instinct, he knew that the discrete gasp for air after he rolled his hips was something of pleasure.

Pulling his lips back, he looked at Gilbert, who was now flushed and looking away rather embarrassed. Oz's lips curled into a smirk again, and he soon realized that he felt a pressure under his thigh from Gilbert's arousal. He was making progress. Abruptly, he reached down to feel the bulge.

The teenager was immediately thrown out of his lap, back against the bed. Regaining his focus, Oz looked up to see a very red Gilbert, who was trying his hardest to look intimidating. It was really only cute, he thought, and rubbed his head tenderly.

"I-I never said, yes, idiot," Gilbert snapped, legs closing together and Oz swore that the shade of red deepened. It was almost comical with the way a grown man was stammering and blushing like a virgin, and Oz bluntly asked him if that were the case.

Topaz eyes flitted around the room, and he bit his lip. "No, I've...had sex," he mumbled, clearly uncomfortable with revealing the new piece of information Oz was slowly gathering about him.

"Then this shouldn't be a problem, right?" Oz remarked, moving to crawl back to him. The already unbuttoned shirt was now twisted, and the blonde opted to let it slide off and unceremoniously onto the hardwood floors to be found later. His torso was thin, the skin leaving the slight sign of his ribs and void of any substantial filled out portions. Oz wasn't malnourished, but he was scrawny.

"Of course it's a problem," Gilbert hissed, and his eyes now locked onto the sight of his newly exposed chest. His bangs fell into his face like a curtain, masking the light in his eyes from view as he mumbled, "You're just a kid, this isn't right."

Just a kid? Oz rolled his eyes in a crude gesture, and tilted his head. Veridian eyes narrowed at him, and he reached out to trace the bone of his jawline lightly, "Do you know who I am?" Oz laughed when Gilbert shook his head slowly, "I'm Oz Vessalius. I have more money to my name than your pretty little hole of a club will ever give you." He smiled at him sweetly, the shadows in his features offsetting the expression with something more sinister.

Roughly, or at least with the most strength that Oz could gather, he pushed the larger against the bed, using both hands to pin the larger wrists. He felt the warm skin under his palms, and his fingers curled into the skin of his wrists threateningly. They both knew that if he wanted, Gilbert could gain control easily with his size and, what Oz felt under his fingertips, lean muscles. Either the taller of the two was too shocked, or had at this point given up on reasoning to push him off.

"This still isn't right."

"So?"

"...Oz we shouldn't."

It was the first time that Oz had heard his name said by Gilbert's voice. It was pronounced with a deep, ribbon like texture and an unwilling undertone of pleading. And yet, there was something more than just resistance, and Oz heard it in the shallow breath after his name. There was a hint of arousal to his voice that made it more alluring than the smooth baritone would have provided before.

It was enough for Oz to scowl slightly, and the usual fortitude of arrogance to falter. That voice brought him down, worked into the crevices of his thoughts. It disrupted his previous assumptions, the image he had painted of Gilbert. He was always right about people and their facades. There was always a fallacy, and he would find it with practiced ease. And Gilbert was willing to do anything for money, he should conform to all the rules Oz had surrounded himself by.

And as he resisted with a conflicted sincerity, it threw everything off. Oz wished he would lie. "Please," he had said it before he realized it or could take it back, "Just...just do it with me," he whispered and his fingers tightened on his wrist, "I'll give you whatever you want."

Oz felt warm lips cover his again, and strong arms wrap around his waist (he hadn't realized his grip loosening, the wrists slipping away from him). There was no anger or smile, but he saw a flicker of resolve cross his features into something concrete. And it was all that mattered as they both began melting into the heat of passion as lips crushed against each other in a rhythmic set of motions.

Tongues danced and twisted together in a way that Oz wouldn't have imagined, and he was reminded of overwhelming lights and beats. Gilbert's motions reflected the fluidness on stage, the precise touches fueling the desire filling Oz's groin.

His teenaged heart was hammering against his chest as the moments past, as he felt Gilbert play with his tongue and oh god, he was sucking on it now. Oz moaned into his mouth. The sparks from every touch was overwhelming. He found passion and the original whim he had acted on. Gilbert provided the excitement, the escape from a cold reality.

Impatiently, Oz's hand began to slide under the hem of the dark sweater, and was surprised that Gilbert stretched to pull it over his head willingly. A light pink dusted over his face, and Oz grinned at him. How was a stripper so shy about showing his body? Regardless, it was endearing. Oz found himself kissing him again, more forcefully as the urge for control began to overtake him.

Feeling the skin of his chest, of his muscles and the faded scar was something Oz had been wrong about entirely. It wasn't intoxicating and blind, no, Oz was well aware of the kisses he placed on his collar and down to his chest, and he caught every pitch in Gilbert's breath as he did so. The scar tissue raised over the skin in a thick, more calloused slash from his shoulder down to abdomen. Gilbert tensed at the feeling of Oz's lips on the physical memory, but allowed him to explore.

Even something so intimate, Oz was let into and it made him smile. He looked up at him with a genuine smile, features soft. Gilbert spluttered and told him to hurry up, and Oz laughed as if the haunting petals down his chest weren't there any longer.

Gilbert let him touch him that time, and Oz watched his face as his hands intruded into tight jeans, eventually discarding them with the growing pile of clothes. Nothing much else was said between gasps and moans, through the sounds of skin sliding against skin. Oz had him writhing under him as his fingers clumsily worked his member in his hands. Dark locks covered the comforter as his head fell back in a moan.

Oz kissed him again as he felt the dancer's back arch gracefully, passionately under him in a beautiful little death. His name was uttered in between breathy moans and shaking. _Oz._ He cried out _his_ name and eagerly, Oz wanted to hear more.

After the initial wave of pleasure and heavy breathing, Gilbert looked up at a satisfied Oz through dark lashes. He was too entranced by the blonde nymph and the ways he touched him to protest when he felt something foreign trying to enter him. Oz heard a muffled noise, and a stuttering, "W-wait...Shouldn't I be..."

Oz raised a brow at him and slid his finger into him in response. The curl of the digit elicited a long moan from the older, as if to silently disagree with him. Just because he was older and taller didn't mean that Oz had to be the one receiving pleasure from him. Oh no, Oz was so much more inclined to take the man himself, and was convinced by the simultaneous movements and pleasured cries that he was right.

By the time that Oz had entered him, awkward in a tangle of limbs and hurried impatience, Gilbert's voice was escalating louder. Oz's name was sung in a sweet string of moans, intertwining with Oz's soft noises and breathing. Together, they set a pace, bodies moving together in time until Gilbert was the first to release into ecstacy. He nearly collapsed if not for the continued thrusts. It took a few moments later for Oz to cry out and shake with raw pleasure, not perfectly in sync like lover's were rumored but rarely to be.

Ungracefully, Oz rolled off of him with a small laugh. The wave of euphoria began to wash away too quickly, and the coldness creeping onto his skin began to replace the previous heat and friction. Smiling at him widely, with sleep beginning to tug at his eyes, Oz cuddled close to Gilbert's side, who had been looking into space distantly. Their connection of bodies served no purpose in understanding him, and it honestly confused the blonde in his soporific state of returning back down to earth.

His eyes closed with the image of golden eyes looking somewhere he couldn't reach, so far away from him.

Oz had fallen asleep.

Gilbert rolled onto his side carefully, and looked over the sleeping features of the boy. The unguarded features of his face was definitely still Oz, but it was void of the dark expressions and distance that Gilbert had been shown the entire night. Honestly, Gilbert didn't know _what_ to think. Nor did he understand why he had let it happen.

No. Gilbert knew. Gilbert Nightray was very much aware of his motives in letting himself be taken away and captured by a cheerfully enigmatic teenager. It was because of another blonde too dear to him, because he would be insane to pass up that amount of money.

And because of the way that Oz had looked at him. His mask slipped, and Gilbert saw in between the cracks of arrogance and fake giddiness. He saw for just a sliver of a moment the lonely desperation in needing another person. Not to say he had done it out of pity, it had been incredibly enjoyable to say in the least. But it was more to it than just the friction of pleasure.

Brushing back a golden lock of hair, Gilbert took one last glance before allowing himself to slip into sleep with no regard for the consequences of tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

Warmth was everywhere around him. Permeating through the blankets and cushions, heat was for once abundant in his half conscious state. There was no stale scent of alcohol or matted blonde waves on the pillow beside him. As amber eyes fluttered open, he saw the slight impression on the pillow next to him where someone had been sleeping before.

Oz.

Had he left for whatever rich children like him do already? It was a onenight stand, after all. The night came to him in still frames, vivid in realism, yet Gilbert felt as if he was viewing it through someone else's eyes. The way his back arched, the voice that cried out, none of it seemed to belong to him. Heat rose to his face at the memories.

Of course none of it mattered.

Slowly, his muscles stretched as he moved to sit up in the tangled navy sheets. With a sigh, the man ran long fingers through his hair before leaning over the side of the bed to clam around for his discarded jeans. The crushed box of cigarettes and the cheap lighter were pulled from one of the pockets, along with the blinking screen of his cell phone.

One hand trying to light the cigarette dangling from his lips, the other flipped the beaten phone open to inspect the missed calls and messages. Honestly, it was a miracle that his phone had any battery at all, lasting through the entire night. Over that period of time, he had seven missed calls, each with a voicemail to match, and five text messages. All from him.

All of the texts were along the same lines of asking his whereabouts. As he flipped through them, he nearly dropped the lighter as the flame flickered out and bled onto the cigarette. Orange embers began to form at the end, and he inhaled the smoke deeply. With a certain amount of sickness twisting in his stomach, Gilbert began to listen to the voicemails.

"Gilbert, where are you? It's late. You know I don't like being alone..." the familiar voice trailed off slightly, and the crackle of the reception reminded him that it wasn't quite over, "Call me, okay, big brother? I need to talk to you. It's important." There was commotion in the background then, and it sounded as if the receiver was being muffled with a hand. Gilbert could make out a faint, "Fuck you guys...Oh...I'll be done in a second, Glen."

"I love you, Gil, gottagobye."

Click.

Scowling, Gilbert took another drag of his cigarette. The phone dropped onto the bed next to him along with a slight flurry of ashes.

What was he doing here?

Gilbert had a day job to get to, and then had to get ready for the nightlife of degrading stares and fake smiles. He had a little brother to support, and bills to pay. The night to take chances was over, and the disillusionment hit him harder than just prickling of thorns on pretty roses. Oz wasn't here, and left no sign as to where he went.

It wasn't as if he had expected for this to mean something more than a large sum of money-which golden eyes saw neatly stacked on the bedside table. Although he didn't make sex for money a habit, Gilbert knew how it worked and was prepared to wake up alone. Even if the circumstances were odd, how was he to expect anything more?

The entire concept of this blonde teenager was too complex, more ambiguous than moody teenagers should be. He didn't understand any of Oz's impulses, and when he thought he did, he reacted in some odd way that painted a juxtaposition to any former assumption. Happy teenaged boys didn't smile with that much loneliness in their eyes. Every aspect of Oz was detached. From his smile to the plain walls of his room. He was hiding any hint of his true colors.

Gilbert groaned, and he here he was trying to figure out some kid that he'd never meet again.

After a few blank moments, the slam of the door proved the previous thought wrong.

"Gil? You up?" Oz called, voice louder than it should have been when unsure of whether he was still sleeping.

The blonde was fully dressed, and even in finely pressed jeans and a casual t-shirt, looked far more refined than one would expect the morning after convincing a stripper to come home with him. His hair was tousled, but it was attractive in that boyish way. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, Gilbert noticed, the way his lips curled into a large grin and yet something about emerald irises lacked the spark that shimmered in a dimly lit club.

He felt the stare of greedy virdian scanning over the exposed skin of his chest, and wondered if seeing the blaring scarlet blotches on his neck and collar weren't enough to satisfy him. If anything, Gilbert had at least learned that Oz was a hungry creature who craved more with the more he was given. And somewhat, that scared the raven haired man.

Gilbert didn't say anything in response, he didn't need to. A flick of ashes onto the floor, another exhale of wispy smoke.

In and out, just breathe.

Oz leaned against the door frame and cleared his throat, "I put your money on the nightstand, I included every hour you've been here." Gilbert blinked in response, and he was taken aback by that. Not having counted the money, much less touched it before, he wasn't aware that he had been paid for more than just the hours of sex. How much was that? The hours that he had peacefully slept away.

"Ah...thank you," he nodded, and leaned over the side of the bed once more to quickly grab at his clothing. A fully dressed Oz made him feel too exposed, too at home with the entire scene with him sitting naked in the no-longer warm bed. He bit down on his cigarette, coughing a little as he stood up to pull up his pants, all while intentionally keeping his eyes anywhere but Oz.

"Stay here."

Gilbert frowned, pulling the dirty, charcoal sweater over his head, "I can't. I need to leave for work."

Something flared in his eyes, a jolt of lightning in what were originally dead or hidden from prying view. Was it because he was told no? How many times had Oz ever been told no?

"I'll pay you," Money. Money was the solution. Numbers and invisible values could fix anything, "What? Do you like being a stripper?"

Gilbert swallowed thickly, managing a stammering, "N-No...I..." and his chest tightened at the laugh that undermined his words.

"Of course you don't," too sweet, Oz's tone was too saturated with milk and honey, "Because you need money right? Then what's the difference between working those jobs, and me paying you? It's just about the money? I'll give you more."

And Oz giggled. His voice filled the room with an uncontrollable, sweet lust. Crazed and raw, his tone was an octave sweeter than it should have been. His eyes were too bright, his pupils too dark and dull. Gilbert gripped the sheets in between in his fingers as some pseudo-anchor.

It was as if he knew. And that thought was terrifying to Gilbert, that someone was inside his mind, crawling into his feelings and deepest thoughts. The recesses of his mind were all that he truly held and owned, and that property was one that he was unwilling to give up so easily. But Oz was right.

He felt small fingers lift his chin, and lips cover his own in a forceful manner. It was bruising, it was intoxicating, and it was the most of Oz that he knew. When he felt the pressure melt away, Gilbert nodded slowly. He looked at the smug teenager through dark lashes, slightly dazed, "Why me?"

"Because I want you." It was the simplicity in his voice that was the most disconcerting. It was clear and on that shallow surface of selfish motives. Oz shrugged his shoulders with a delicate tilt of his head, grinning all the while.

Gilbert's cigarette had burnt out, glowing a weak fluorescent red as it flickered desperately. Smoke and stale air invaded his senses, and he suddenly felt colder when Oz turned towards the door, back facing him.

"You don't have to actually stay here all day, I have school. Be back here by seven, and wear something nice since we'll be going out," Oz told him matter of factly, and it was one of those harsh tones around the edges of his words that left no room for arguing. Whatever bizarre webs of thoughts weaved throughout Oz's mind must have clicked, because his voice took on a lighter tone, "Oh, do you need anything?"

Long fingers felt around his clothing and reassured himself that he had everything that he had arrived with. Running a hand through wavy, dark hair, Gilbert nodded shyly. His face even darkened with scarlet as he mumbled, "You don't...do you have a hair tie?"

Perhaps something as simple, but feminine, as a hair tie was a silly request, but his hair had become a mess of sweat induced grease and knots. Apprehensively, he glanced at Oz before back at the folds of the sheets. Interestingly enough, they didn't wrinkle much despite their activities on it the night before and-

Gilbert just needed to stop thinking altogether.

"Ah, my sister has ribbons, is that alright?" Oz's face was scrunched up in a concentrated way, and it was amusing how much thought he put into a simple favor. And Gilbert was suddenly hyper-aware of every detail of his face as Oz looked back at him with curious veridian. He noticed how mares and blemishes were nonexistent when it came to his skin, which had been really soft, consequentially. The younger's bangs would fall into his eyes when he nodded his heads, and nearly mechanically, quick fingers would lift to brush it away.

And his mouth, that in itself was some sort of mesmerizing and Gilbert didn't know why. Maybe it had something to do with the hints of a pink tongue, or the curves and smiles that varied more than he knew possible. Oz smiled a lot, but not the regular type of happy smiles. They were Oz smiles, the kind that hid back whatever he was feeling. And a lot of times, they looked anything but happy.

It wasn't until his was name was repeated with a slight more amount of volume that Gilbert remembered to nod, flustered. He watched as the teenager grinned and rolled his eyes in a psuedo-typical manner before disappearing into the hallway to retrieve the desired ribbon.

The pitterpatter of Oz's steps left in a decrescendo down the hall, leaving Gilbert to himself in the stark bedroom. And for the first time, topaz eyes were able to take in the entirety of the the room. White bleached the walls and carpet of the room bled out the colors in a sterile effect, while navy accents provided a dark contrast through the stiff cotton fabrics of comforters and curtains. It was completely void of pictures or mess, no personal items in view. It could have been a guest room, not the room of a teenaged boy.

Oz brought him back a black ribbon made of satin. He explained it was the best fitting one that he could find before handing it over to Gilbert who began immediately typing up his hair into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. It was a relief to gather his hair up and put it away for the time being, otherwise it was too much of a wavy mess to deal with.

He was told to give it back at anytime, Oz explained with a wave of his hand, his sister wouldn't mind.

"You have a sister?"

The blonde tensed, and it was the action of straightening his form and poise that seemed to make him more distance. His back unnaturally composed and his chin lifted slightly, above any weakness that question may have presented. Oz replied simply, "I do."

Gilbert knew that he was treading into something off limits, a concept too far out of his reach. Despite Oz's reaction pushing him away in all means possible, he felt compelled and drawn to the insecurity. A sister held many implications for a family through reputation, and he wondered if Oz was on good terms with her. Was she like Oz?

"Is she-"

"Don't worry about her," Oz snapped with a menacing glower. The topic was wound close to Oz's heart, a place too twisted and trapped in the ambiguous emotions and childish whims. So sweet and alluring, yet bound with thorns and needles, was Oz really anything like a rose? No, Oz was nothing like a flower that wilted.

The older man recoiled back as if burned by those sharp little words, and nodded with shaky confidence. He was reminded to be back there on time that night, and the voice was resounding with icy hollowness. Oz closed himself up, not scowling or showing any signs of being upset. No, there was nothing. It had become monotonous, and Gilbert found himself frightened of this boy's mind again.

His steps echoed the halls after he left the room, Oz not glancing at him as he departed. Silently, he had just sat there with flickers of thought in his eyes.

A string of harmonized tones vibrated in his pocket, and casting a final look at the oversized mansion, he fished the phone out of his pocket. Gilbert fumbled to open it, scowling as his ear was immediately attacked with yells and panic from an overreacting amount of melodrama.

"Vincent, I'm okay," Gilbert sighed, acknowledging the shuffling static on the other end of the phone with interest. What was Vincent doing with all the interference in the background?

"I was so worried, Gilbert," Vincent's voice took on a soft, vulnerable sound that made his brother feel awful. Why hadn't he told Vincent where he was going before he had impulsively decided to sleep with an underaged rich kid? The paper money was heavy in his pocket, and he swallowed dryly.

"I know, but it's fine okay? I just needed to stay with a friend because of work."

Lies.

"Yea..." he heard Vincent breathe into the speaker, and it was shaky, "Anyways. Gilbert, fuck you're going to kill me. I need to talk to you, when will you be home?"

Gilbert lifted the phone from his ear a moment to look at the time before running across the vacant street while it was clear of vehicles. Fortunately, he really wasn't far from home. How that large, empty mansion had ended up on the same side of town as the cramped apartments he had taken residence up in was beyond him.

"Give me like 15 minutes," he rubbed at his temple from a habitual action when he was stressed, "Vincent, what did you do now?"

"I need money."

Of course he did.

"You realize what I do doesn't pay for all your expenses right? Start cutting back," he began to scold, and flashes of the night before echoed in his mind like the techno beats of a heavy bass and alcohol. Vincent knew what he did, or had done, and bringing that up was somewhat of a sore advantage because he knew how much his brother disapproved of stripping. However, Gilbert was aware of the fact he was attractive and, to his surprise at the time, talented. It brought money in, and that was that.

"No, Gilbert. I'm in trouble. I need money for...other reasons."

And it was then that Gilbert knew that this wasn't just a splurge on electronics or a late bill to pay. There was a desperation that Vincent rarely ever succumbed to, a pleading that was grating to hear from that sweet voice.

"I'll be there in a minute." Glbert hung up without warning, and his stomach churned sickly. The walk back to his apartment seemed to last longer with the quicker his pace became. When his hands twisted the doorknob, he half expected to find Vincent there with a teasing smile only to announce that he had made it all up to get Gilbert to come home. He wouldn't put it past his brother complex.

Vincent was sitting on the couch calmly, and cautiously, the taller man bit his lip and sat down next to him, the couch dipping to his weight. The room was messier than usual, the kind of mess achieved through a fit of rage where stuffing of cushions and pillows became strew across the floor.

"Gilbert, I've been doing drugs."

And it was as blunt as that. Vincent didn't look up at him, and the smiling face of his little brother had become hard in reality. Miscolored eyes stared down at the scratched coffee table blankly, and Gilbert knew that he was waiting for a response before he could process anything else.

"Alright," it was hard as an older brother to swallow the cursing and yelling. He had become something akin to a parent figure to his seventeen year old brother, and he felt it his responsibility to keep him away from those things. What had he done wrong? He was doing everything he could, the sleepless nights and crude jobs, what had they all been for now? He wanted to scream at him, but there was something more. He wouldn't have told him that so openly if not.

When Vincent moved to look at him, the first thing he noticed was how old he looked. Maybe it was the dark circles under his eyes, or the slimmed face of a matured boy, but this Vincent wasn't his illusion of a sweet, devoted little brother. This Vincent had been exposed to too much, he had not only witness but taken a part of the process of breaking down normality, embracing every form of abuse and dysfunctional options after their mother had rejected her infant.

Gilbert couldn't bring himself to hate him, no matter what he did.

"I need money, because," there was a pause as he squeezed his eyes shut, "Because I owe these guys. And...they said they're going to hurt me if they don't get it soon. Really soon."

The blonde threw himself at him, and it only took Gilbert a moment to realize that he was shaking. His frame was too thin, he noticed as he wrapped him in a protective hug, or what he would have liked to have once imagined was remotely protective. He cooed into his ear gently, pushing away the lurking weight of panic and reality for that moment just to be an older brother. To assure him that he would figure something out.

The ticks on the clock thudded in his ears, a countdown to 7. A countdown to more secrets and lies, and he knew at that point he couldn't mix the two. Vincent didn't need to be involved in what was happening between he and Oz, whatever that may be. Beautiful secrets like shy butterflies fluttering away from reason and light. How many secrets would they weave? Would they cover themselves in their lies, or tangle in sticky words? Gilbert felt himself suffocating under the gaze of monotonous beats and dulled forest eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

"You sure look charming."

A certain touch of smugness radiated from the curve of his smirk, and oozed through his tone with clear amusement. Oz couldn't stop the expression from showing when Gilbert colored and squirmed deeper into his seat. Undoubtedly, despite all teasing, Gilbert really _did_ look nice. He always had a certain attractive air about him, an inviting air, but in the low lit atmosphere of an aristocratic gathering, the dark haired man was slightly different in his natural charm.

Charcoal waves were pulled into the same, but neater, ponytail with the silken ribbon. In the opaque room, his locks took on a smokey hue, intoxicating against the clash of molten topaz flashing under the fan of dark lashes. He had cleaned up, and Oz had to admit that he wore class quite well; just like one would adorn a tailored outfit, Gilbert seemed so fitting in such formal attire.

Yet, Gilbert looked away and adjusted his tie as Oz's eyes hungrily drank in the sight across the table. The natural contour of his form was accented slightly behind the neat fabric of his suit, and the white collar of the dress shirt flaring fractionally from the first couple buttons pulled apart loosely, revealing a sliver of tantalizing skin of his collar. Oz was pleased to see the bruising flush of a mark from the night before there.

Maybe it was strange to be sitting across from him in one of the most expensive restaurants in town admiring a hickey he left, but Oz found himself pleased with his ego. Everything had been going so nicely, naturally he was in a pleasant mood and especially charismatic, or particularly teasing. Even if he had to buy all his plans, tossing more money to construct his social graces. However, Oz still smiled with pride.

"What are you going to order?" he asked the fidgeting man across from him. Gilbert looked at him, lips moving as if to form words but no voice projecting out. Instead, he hid his reddening face behind the menu, much to Oz's amusement, and stuttered out a poorly pronounced french name.

Oz laughed in return, and he tried-honestly, he _did_ -to muffle his giggles at the aghast expression he received, "Gil, you know what that is right?"

Granted most of the menu was in French, but it was silly of him to assume that _everyone_ had been well versed in the romance language from a young age. As expected, Gilbert shook his head slowly.

Oz grinned widely.

"It's a sheep's brain."

Oh Gilbert.

He lurched at the revelation, eyes widening to the size of the moon in all it's shimmering glory. Oz once again bursted into a fit of giggles, clenching at his sides as the older man blanching and spluttering at the thought of dining on brains, of all ungodly things.

"I-I think...maybe you should order for me," Gilbert suggested weakly, and the sickened look on his face translated to his voice in a shaky manner. The blonde smiled brightly, and he had just realized how long he had actually been smiling. He smiled a lot around this man, he noticed, even in this brief amount of time.

Gilbert was fun. Against all the surrounding terms and conflicts, being with the stripper of all people put Oz at more ease than he had been in a long while. He was happy to let himself transcend into his guilty pleasure bubbling with newfound excitement. It was so lighthearted, airy and without the heavy threat of reality, as if he couldn't feel the strings tugging him back down. Perhaps Oz had fabricated a fantasy built out of forest colored paper.

That was alright, though.

And by the time the stoic waiter with the forced smile had gotten to their table, Oz rattled off their order before Gilbert had the chance to say anything. The waiter looked to be in his early twenties and entirely bored with his job for the night. His voice was coated in a heavy accent, slipping a few French words in and it occurred to Oz that it would be alright to show off a bit.

"Je voudrais le steak avec les legumes," he paused thoughtfully, "Alors, il voudra cette...ici," Oz smiled at the waiter and pointed to an item on the menu, "Mon francais est un peu rustique." He laughed with as much charm as he could muster, and the waiter in turn actually chuckled a little. Oz had that effect on people, and so after a few more moments of conversing in fluent French, there was laughter between the two as Gilbert bit his lip from across the table, lost in the jumble of foreign syllables.

"Merci beaucoup!" Oz thanked him as he left with their order, turning back to a quiet Gilbert. "I ordered you lobster, is that alright?"

"Ah...I've never had it before," he mumbled, but protested when Oz suggested that he could change it, "B-But I've always wanted to try it."

Pleased with this, Oz nodded and the grin was back to shining brilliantly, "Good! You like this place so far, right? It's pretty nice."

Gilbert's lips flickered with a glimpse of what looked like disconcertment. The blonde teenager watched as he nodded, and wondered if he had ever been to a formal place like this, with low lit rooms and fresh orchids on the table, white petals reflecting the light of candles. It was a small building, one that was older with Victorian grandeur. Wide, clear windows with delicate white lattices spanning the walls against the night sky. There was a theme of simple whites and refined blacks in the scheme, with neatly set white tablecloths against ebony chairs.

In the background, Oz noticed the piano change to a tune he vaguely recognized. Humming along softly, he tilted his head with golden strands shifting into his eyes in a enigmatic curtain, "Do you dislike me?"

A sweet legato played behind his words, lowering in pitch into a richer octave. Ringing of notes and keys resounded against the diminishing light of dying candles, and a different ringing replaced the drawl of the piano when a short caesura in the notes brought silence.

Emeralds watched behind a golden veil as a darker shade of gold struggled to find an answer. So uneasy, so cautious and easily exploited. Perhaps Oz was teasing him too much.

"I don't know," Gilbert admitted, emphasizing the last syllable with a low uncertainty, "I don't know you, at all, really."

What had he created between them?

"Does it matter who I am?"

Oz's tone was blase, the curl of his lips plastic. It had never mattered before who he was, to anyone. Vessalius was enough. His family's name, _Jack's_ name was the deciding factor in any situation; 'Oz' was just a superfluous detail.

"It does matter," Gilbert's brow wrinkled when he was concentrating, "We're...we're...doing..." A pink tongue glided across his bottom lip, face coloring in a deep scarlet; the point was taken. "B-But. It's weird to act like this with a stranger, isn't it?"

"Says the stripper," Oz giggled, fully aware of the sharp edge to his words.

It was almost endearing the way that Gilbert wore emotional pain. Grimacing, his eyes fell and his lips pursed. For a moment, Oz thought he was going to cry. The piano started back up again before Gilbert's lips shaped to form words like practicing what was being mulled over in his mind.

"Is that really all I am?" he asked, and the viridian gaze looked him over in response. How funny appearances were. Behind small candles, Gilbert looked more like a refined noble rather than his true profession. Everyone could hide, masking true feelings and desires with pretty words and numbers. Then again, it was hard to tell who _wasn't_ hiding, Oz reminded himself and for a moment questioned if it was the man sliding against the pole in such an enrapturing manner that was the true act.

Oz smiled. That was _his_ mask of choice, crafted with years of lies and intricate secrets.

"I don't know," he rolled his head to the other side with a laugh, "I'm just that rich brat, right? I bet you really hate me."

Gilbert flinched again.

"I never said that," he swallowed nervously, "You have to be _someone_ though. All I know is that you have money and sister. That's not enough for me to hate someone."

Then why did everyone else hate him?

"And what about you?" Oz folded the table cloth in his lap, fabric creasing under his fingers in stubborn folds.

"...What?"

"You, who are you, I mean," Oz questioned with a sincere spark of curiosity. How long would it take to break such sweet naivety?

"I don't know how to answer that," Gilbert supplied sheepishly, and Oz spotted a small smile. What was there to smile about? Was he truly happy? Was his life so wonderful that he couldn't begin to describe it?

Oz shrugged, "If you're not just a stripper, then surely you must be more exciting, right?"

The older man paused, contemplating the concept as if it were being recorded for audiences to scrutinize, "I live with my younger brother. I work two jobs, in the day I work at a small publishing company called Pandora, but it's occasional for me to show up; they don't need me much. At night," he frowned a bit, "I do what I have to. Vincent goes to a private school, and that's not cheap."

Oz had leaned forward, noticing how gradually, Gilbert's voice seemed to flow with a louder confidence that came with being comfortable. Nodding, he encouraged him to share more despite all boundaries and privacy. The small details flooded his ears and formed a larger picture, the contextual tidbits filling in gaps as he spoke about his jobs and younger brother. His voice softened when he said Vincent's name, and Oz felt his chest constrict with an odd sensation. He couldn't see past the barriers in his voice, though, still so guarded, with good reason, about his brother.

Gilbert was such a curious creature, Oz thought to himself as he watched the other's face flush and his words come to a stop. So meek, but so beautiful with a certain power lurking behind his innocent antics. And for once, Oz didn't doubt that he was being sincere, not with the way that his eyes softened with a warm glow when he talked about what he truly loved. That worried him, a little, because he was _so_ genuine that the blonde was unsure of how to approach such a pure mind.

When the food had come, on pristine silver platters and warm plates, brilliant emerald irises were still fixated across the table. They flitted across the chiseled features of his face, in a certain enrapturement as if Gilbert was suddenly more marvelous than he had been minutes before. Taking note of this, the aforementioned furrowed his brows and Oz noticed the way that he bit his lip when he was frustrated.

"How old is your sister?" Gilbert asked, the frustrated nervousness still gracing his expression. He poked at his food, like a small animal inspecting their findings to whether it was safe for eating. The butter drizzled lobster on a bed of seasoned rice and leafy green decorations all presented to him an odd assortment he hadn't been faced with before. It looked too picturesque to be edible.

"Fourteen," he answered simply, and his stare lost its intensity as Gilbert looked away and nodded. He shoved a hesitant bite of his meal into his mouth, and Oz giggled a little at the pure ecstasy that washed over Gilbert's face before he turned back to face him again with new resolve.

"What's she lik-"

"Don't start," Oz drawled with a malice coated frown, a warning. His knife clinked against the plate, well cutting past the steak with a bit too much force.

"I told you about my brother," Gilbert pointed out and Oz wondered why he was so adamant in talking about this. And so with a skeptical raise of a brow, he asked him.

"I...want to know more about you," the older man admitted, and for a moment Oz was left speechless by the small smile that accompanied the sincere tone-so, so sweetly sincere. Had he captivated him, he wondered to himself.

After all, it wasn't like he was asking about _him_. Not _Jack_. Nor his father. Just Ada.

"Her name is Ada," Oz began slowly, and his eyes darted around for a moment as if to reassure himself that it was alright to divulge anything said, "Like I said, she's fourteen. We used to be really close," he smiled painfully as he remembered white flower bracelets and the smell of running through bright magnolias, or hiding behind monstrous crepe merdals with a giggling Ada, "Recently though, we've drifted. She doesn't...She doesn't talk to me much."

Gilbert ate in silence, topaz eyes focusing entirely on him with no diversions but to look down at his plate momentarily. The blonde noticed with the flit of emotions in the shadows defining his face that he was listening with utmost attention. It was all towards _Oz_ and what he had to say, from the details of his sister to the small pauses of his diction.

A warm flutter passed through the Vessalius' stomach, and the candle in the center flickered in simultaneously in a spark of manifestation. He watched the glowing flame as it oscillated and reflected back into Gilbert's face across from him. When the aforementioned man's expression shifted slightly, the flame seemed to flicker gleefully with the softening of his smile. It was that contentment that flustered the steady equilibrium in Oz's emotions; Gilbert was that interested in _him_ personally.

And wasn't it those little things about each other that were the most exciting to discover? The little quirks were what allowed them to really define their personalities. No one had cared to discover those minute qualities before, and naturally Oz had never felt the urge to express interest in finding that in anyone else. But suddenly, those mattered, and he wanted to know the silly things about Gilbert.

"What's your favorite color?" Oz blurted out between bites of steak.

Gilbert hesitated, as if it were a trick question, "Blue...why?"

Oz smiled brightly, "Just wondering. Blue would look good on you," he commented with a wave of his fork. No matter how silly it was, he had just learned something about him, and that was important, right? A pleasant hum rung in his ears with the heat pooling in his stomach. Oz couldn't recall a time that he had been so genuinely happy before.

The rest of the dinner passed with light chatter about trivial things, in which had learned that Gilbert was fond of chores and a lightweight when it came to alcohol-he made a devious mental note of that one. Albeit reluctantly, he had also stumbled across the interesting fact that the Nightray was afraid of cats. In that one conversation, he had managed to learn more about another person than he had ever extended his interest towards another in his life.

Oz had insisted that he try dessert despite all of the flustered man's protests. After a smug moment of pride when Gilbert ended up devouring the chocolate mousse cake, he paid the bill with a generous tip. He hushed Gilbert's mumbling about letting him pay something, prodding him to follow him out of the restaurant and into the rush of cool, night air.

The clouds blocked out the stars in opaque wisps, with the moon rising from the darkness on the silver lining of moonlight against the clouds. The sky looked murky, like someone had stirred up the air and light into a stew of nighttime, Oz thought. Casually, he commented on the moon being so brilliant and reached for Gilbert's hand in a childlike gesture.

He felt Gilbert stiffen at the contact, but after a moment, long fingers curled around his.

Riding home was quiet, but the silence hung in a comfortable air between linked fingers and the low hum of the radio. The view out the window disappeared, the glass fogging up in a moist film that smeared as Oz leaned his head against it. He glanced at Gilbert, who had closed his eyes at some point in the ride and wondered how long things would stay pleasant.

He was so used to everything in his life letting him down. Muses became dull and games turned boring, Oz had begun to find it difficult for any one thing to hold his interest. But this new game was bizarre, surely it wouldn't stale into something boring. Not when Oz's interest was peaked at the tiny things with this man.

Once the car pulled in with a screech against pavement, Oz had pulled Gilbert out of the car and towards the door with a grin, "Tonight was fun."

Gilbert nodded, clearly confused as to whether he was going inside or not, "It was, actually. Thank you."

Oz smiled and pulled him down by his collar, eying the rose color dusting his face, "Want to spend the night?"

"I-I shouldn't, I mean I-"

He was promptly cut off with a pair of warm lips and a tugging towards the door. It only took a flick of his tongue against Gilbert's bottom lip for all resolve to melt away and for him to allow himself to be led into the house. Oz smirked against his lips; he won.

They fumbled upstairs led by an overly impatient Oz into the teenager's room, the steps and hallways all blending into a hazy blur as lips were kissing all over his skin and elegant fabrics were being discarded unceremoniously onto the floor. Oz pressed him back against the mattress, and took a moment to admire the flushed and disheveled man under him.

Gilbert's hair had tangled into a wavier mess, ponytail undone, with Oz's fingers through it previously, but he didn't seem to care as he let out a low breath. The buttons to his shirt were treated mercilessly under the blonde's digits, the muscled chest being exposed to the darkened room. Even without the lights on, Oz could see enough of him through the dim light provided through the window to make a mumbled remark about it as he kissed the shell of his ear.

"You look really sexy, you know," Oz whispered as his hands traced down his chest, threatening to travel lower into the dip of his abdomen.

Gilbert squeezed his eyes shut and let out a gasp, "S-Shut up. Don't say those things..."

Licking his lips, Oz felt around for the bulge underneath him, earning him a desperate whine, "You're really hard too."

He heard an attempt at a protest, but it was soon drowned out with the gasps and muffled moans as he worked the hardness under his hand. His thumb ran lazy circles around the head of Gilbert's cock, smearing the precum bubbling there. A particularly fast jerk of his hand elicited a rather wanton moan from the squirming man.

When Oz's lips replaced his hand, Gilbert bucked his hips up with a rather loud groan and sputtered protests. ' _Oz, a-ah no, not...don't..._ oh, _Oz_.' A wet tongue ran down the length, and Oz concentrated on making those lovely noises increase in volume with the more pressure he added, the more that he took into his mouth.

Blonde hair began bobbing up and down on his cock, with Gilbert's fingers weaving through it in a tight grip. Every impatient thrust up into his mouth and every euphonic moan of his name, Oz drank it all in like a sweet wine, a rich aphrodisiac slowly intoxicating his ability to think. His senses were all filled with the friction and mellifluous pitches from Gilbert whenever he took his cock a little further back until he felt it hit his throat, or when he sucked at the tip so diligently.

When Gilbert came with a loud cry and the arch of his back, Oz eagerly sucked and lapped at it before pulling back suddenly. He lurched and spit out the repulsive bitter taste into the sheets, shivering in distaste. As fun as it was, especially with a spent Gilbert panting through the waves of his orgasm, he was not thrilled about the taste. Those porn movies that insisted that it tasted like some sugary nectar had _lied_.

"Oz," Gilbert murmured in his recovering dazed state. His eyes were glossed over with pleasure like clouds in the night sky, "Should I...you, I mean."

Oz shook his head and ignored the pressure in his pants, not entirely comfortable with the thought of being unwound and vulnerable like the melted state that he had reduced Gilbert to. Something about the lack of control didn't sit well with him, like he would fall apart at the seams if given the chance.

Instead of arguing with him any further, Oz pulled the covers over them both and cuddled up to Gilbert's side, "I'm tired," he announced and smirked as the other finally stopped insisting that he return the favor. It was sweet though, Oz had to admit.

In the lazy warmth of entire night, Oz fell asleep quickly as dreams flit behind his eyelids in a peaceful slumber. At some point, viridian eyes opened to an empty bed and the flashing numbers that read 2:54 in blaring red. Gilbert was no where to be found.


	5. Chapter 5

The birds weren't singing quite as brilliantly. They had stopped, within the last few hued mornings, which in themselves were a shade duller. The nightingales that Oz had taken to had also stopped, only the minstrel of the lonely morning doves perched on the rooftop filled the hanging silence. Languidly, the sun would peek over clouds and behind rooftops with little smudges in the skyline that formed flocks of fluttering creatures.

He had been waking up alone, which although was not uncommon, he found himself craving the warmth of another's skin against his own. Images and dreams flitted under his eyelids, and there was a moment in between sleep and consciousness that he found himself immersed in a warm, saccharine grace. Reality hadn't hit yet, the nightingales had not yet sung and the thoughts of the real world would crash like a roaring wave and send him sputtering into his pillows, clutching for air as he saw his father and Jack and his heart wouldn't quite stop feeling as if it were being clenched upon entirely.

For the next few moments, Oz laid there, ignoring the thin film of sweat sticking to his clothing and the grinding chasm in his chest. He laid there just to be, to remind himself that the worst has passed, or to convince himself rather, and that it was as if the bundle of sheets and fortress of pillows could keep him safe from all harm.

Viridian eyes slipped shut again, and molten amber filled the safe black veil.

And oh _god_ , it was that sick spiraling feeling again. Some unknown force was gripping his lungs between the pads of its fingers-just because it could, and somehow he knew in his theoretical gasping state that it was probably laughing at him. And he really wasn't quite sure why the color of rich navy was sending his nerves into a frantic short, or why he had become so concerned with the way the sheets bunched and pinched when someone occupied the space next to him. He flung himself over, arms twisting wildly against the fabric to just pretend for a moment that the pocket next to him had been filled by more than the mess his hands were making.

And it was odd to say, but Oz knew that he truly missed Gilbert.

Granted, Oz had never been a very practical boy. His emotions and impulses ran off a little chain of reactions and forgotten causes that imploded with every laugh as he left behind some kind of catastrophe that no longer concerned him. Logic was so often abandoned that he sometimes forgot just what the peculiar word truly meant. He had never been on the other end, so to speak, where he was clutching desperately for that same logic he had snubbed. Why? What were the motives for suddenly vanishing?

The emotions creeping up his stone wall of a mask was too much work. Rolling over, Oz watched as the sliver of light bent from his ceiling down the expanse of the wall.

He didn't care anymore.

(Except that he did and he _knew_ it).

* * *

Three more days.

Gilbert came back and Oz wasn't sure whether he was more angry or hurt or relieved. It came in the form of a little digital envelope with just a simple "Can I come over?" and he just _stared_ until his eyes felt that heavy strain from looking at the brightness of the screen too long and too close. And it seemed like by the time he was done burning those four words into his retinas that he was then pulling the handle to the front door to a sheepish man who looked like he hadn't slept or eaten in days.

"Hey," Gilbert started and Oz watched the way he averted his eyes in that nervous habit, and he realized that he had slowly become able to pinpoint a few of his habits. And by the way he took a breath like the rush of air would sweep away all his worries, Oz knew he was about to try and explain—and why exactly was Gilbert explaining himself to Oz? He was by no means obligated to him, they were barely more than acquaintances with a bond of sex and money.

"I don't care where you were," the blond snipped, but cracked the enormous wooden door open more to let him in.

Lying.

Gilbert's face twisted in a somewhat painful manner. Oz recognized the way his brow wrinkled, the way it had over dinner when he wanted to say something or when Oz asked him an absurd question that really shouldn't be asked in bed.

"Are you hungry?" Oz asked with pursed lips, the door slamming against its hinges a little too roughly.

There was this gritty friction in the yard of space between them. Not like the dulled sense of admiration that Oz distanced himself from, or the stuffy rivalries and hatred of other houses. It was rubbing against him and tearing up any resolve he had, and roughing up that tiny fraction of guilt that he had left. He hadn't done anything wrong, he thought to himself, but for once, he felt like he should hastily apologize.

"No, I'm alri-"

"Let's have lunch then."

Oz strode past him with a headstrong focus onwards to the dining room and he was partially weary of looking back. Maybe it was his own fucked up way of asking him to stay, but the crude commands were the most basic forms of communication he knew when he _didn't know_ what was going on with himself. He wanted to scream and say so many things, to emotionally vomit and demand to know everything and why he wasn't attached at the hip when he wanted him _so much_.

He wanted Gilbert so much.

He heard the thud of a second pair of footsteps and started to rummage around in the cabinets. He was acting like a fool, he frowned at his skewed reflection in the porcelain dish and stuck his tongue out with a sigh. He was acting so silly that it really was embarrassing. He should really stop this.

"Oz?"

"What," he jumped and spun around in some animalistic manner like a deer in the headlights.

"I'm fine."

"Ah, well, I'm really not hungry so..."

The dish clattered onto the counter precariously and Oz stared, his lips pressing into a tight line and trying to hear past the pounding of his own heart rate in his ears. His eyes slipped down, watching as his fingers clenched and unclenched, scraping his nails over his palms. He was still racing, and the part that bothered him most was because he was unsure of what exactly had set off the hurricane of foreign impulses.

Gilbert was smiling at him, he saw once he lifted his head after a heavy moment of silence. It was the most earnest— _painfully genuine—_ expression and the slight indent of his brow suggested just a hint of amusement. It struck Oz as the most breathtakingly, sole, moment that was so bright that he could feel some layer of ice just melt, the water trickling and cooling that erratic nerves. It made him feel safe, calmer, and suddenly very small. That smile was too experienced and soft, it had been shown to another and the teenager was fully aware of that blatant gap that placed him on the irrationally green and childish end of the spectrum.

"I'm sorry," he was still smiling, although there was a certain amount of unease to his tone, as if he were embarrassed.

Oz shrugged, "It's really okay. I've just been bored out of my mind." The older man nodded slowly, and the silence returned like a fog setting in. Licking his lips dryly, Oz added, tone curious, "Did I forget to pay you?"

Blinking, brows furrowed and he slowly shook his head, "No, you did." His voice trailed off, lingering on words unsaid that stopped at his tongue and were swallowed back down.

Oz was reminded of how business centered and frivolous their relationship, if it could even be considered that, was. Yet, here was Gilbert, standing in his kitchen with a terribly adorable expression of confusion and shifting uncomfortably without those business strings attached. He was there because he could be, and he _had_ been the one to ask.

He should really say something, Oz thought to himself with a sense of resolve, take this strange opportunity despite that neither were probably sure of how it had ended up that way. Just as he parted his lips, a high pitched tune cut him off, and as Gilbert sighed and dug around in his pocket to find his phone, Oz frowned slightly. Not that he was discouraged, or disappointed even. Maybe a bit.

"Vince..." Gilbert muttered, eyes scanning over the phone with a click of his tongue.

"Who?"

"My brother," raven locks shook in a curtain around his face, "Don't worry about it. I'll need to leave soon, though." His voice was apologetic, and Oz nodded.

"Why did you come today?" Oz's grace was lost in his curiosity, the inquiry more blunt than tactful but it did the job. He watched the surprise pass through topaz irises like an alarm setting off.

"You seem lonely," Gilbert answered, eyes meeting his in that earnest way again, all his intentions so completely honest that Oz hardly knew what to do with them, "I just thought you might want some company for a bit, if that's okay. I don't...I'm not asking for money for this, you just seem to be alone a lot."

Oz couldn't breathe, his chest was filled up so tightly, constraining and tugging from every which way that he could only stand there and question what made this man so different, why was it that he could make the absurd assumption that was so true that he couldn't stand to face it himself. And even more so, he was still standing there, he had seen it, seen whatever sort of backwards mask Oz had created for himself to remain king in his vast kingdom of self protection and pride, and he was there trying to break down the mortar and brick, most likely unintentionally at that.

And he really was lonely, sometimes—most the time.

"You can come over without asking, you know," Oz mumbled, and the corners of his lip pulled upwards just slightly, "You don't need to ask." And then he was grinning brightly at Gilbert, truly grinning with all the radiance of his overbearing personality in one expression. He felt happy, for the first time in a long time.

Maybe it was infectious, that grin of his, but Gilbert found himself smiling back, "Alright. I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

He couldn't keep doing this.

Time was passing with every day, and it slipping away faster than he could possibly keep up. Between his day job, his _night job—_ that he was hellbent on keeping as discreet and away from Oz as possible—and Oz himself, Gilbert was starting to fall apart at the seems. He didn't eat much, there was no time to and food was money that needed to go towards digging Vincent out of that hole he had dug them both into. And that hole was getting deeper with each day, and the time that they had left was not nearly enough to get the amount of money that Vincent needed to pay back.

Gilbert was disgusted with himself to some extent, more than ever; he started to pay more mind to the faces and eyes that watched every inch of his skin like some animal on display, and he realized that he was just that. He was just a pretty plaything that was no better than his body and what it could do to give a crowd of dirty old men a hard on. The thought was starting to nauseate him. It wasn't as if he had a choice, though, and he had to swallow what was left of his dignity and force a smile as one leg hooked around the pole.

He slid up the metal pole with a grimace, and quickly shot a smile to make up for the slip. The other hand was working off the white tanktop clinging to his torso, and he immediately pressed his bare chest again the pole with a lick to his fingers and a wanton moan for emphasis. It was sensual, more intimate the way that his lips parted in the way a lover would touch him, oozing with a desire for something lacking with the way that his hips rolled and bucked to a force that wasn't there. It took all that he could to block out the heated stares and catcalls, and when he did, he found himself thinking of bright viridian gazing up at him, pink lips parting to whisper his name and a moan.

After his show, he was pulling on a jacket when a familiar face made his way towards him.

"Great show, Raven."

The grin directed at him was sleazy, and Gilbert muttered a quick thanks and pulled the jacket tighter around himself. His manager was a short man, a bit too heavy and his face rounded. His hair was sweaty and thin, and he wore thick rimmed glasses that screamed presumptuous. He had the kind of laugh with that was like shrieking, with piggish snorts as his face crinkled up unattractively. Without a doubt, Gilbert tried to avoid him unless entirely necessary for him to have to make contact.

He felt a hand on his lower back and immediately jerked away, squeezing his eyes shut before sending him a mild glare.

"Just give me my paycheck," he managed through grit teeth, and his manager laughed with that obnoxious voice of his again before handing over the crumpled piece of paper. Not as much as he had thought, and the hours were correct, Gilbert frowned.

He was about to turn to leave the god awful joint when the nasal voice stopped him, "So that Vessalius kid," he paused to laugh at the expression he received, "We all know about it, hell, did you really think word wouldn't get out with _that_ family?"

"I don't care," Gilbert narrowed his eyes, "I don't know anything about his family."

"Well I'll tell you that you're fucking around with the wrong one," the man raised a brow, "That kid is just a brat. Now his _cousin_. Jack. That's who you should get to. Guy is practically bathing in money," he stopped for a moment, and the way that his lips curled was almost frightening, "But be careful, Raven. They're pretty fucked up. Didn't exactly get his reputation for volunteer work. I've heard that for a night, Jack can make anyone feel like the center of the world, but he can tear them apart just as quickly."

Gilbert's stomached churned. Without another word, he quickly jerked around and made his way towards the exit. He felt like the only one who wasn't aware of what was happening, like he was blindfolded and being led into a minefield. Jack. Jack Vessalius. The name echoed and rung in his ears like a blaring siren, but all he could picture was the face of a grinning Oz.


End file.
